User blog:Iro: Spirit of Iron/Sins of the Fathers Preview
Working on this one for whatever reason now... Prologue The being rose to his feet unsteadily. He looked around, dazed and confused, his head pulsating with a nagging sensation of familiarity – and with general pain. He placed his hand to his forehead and let out a harsh and sharp sigh. There was nothing, nothing that came to him in a surge of remembrance. He felt as if his mind had been ravaged, a portion of his reminiscences stripped away. One thing, among a few others, stood out in his half-empty memory – his name. Harjotu, he realized, was what he had been called once. Another word floated through his head: Tsiac. It was a broader term, but he recalled being referred to by it. A race or a species, perhaps, it was. From a third person’s perspective, he was not a remarkable sight for this world around him. Standing at about seven and a half feet in height, he had a muscular build with a lean and strong torso. His skin was a pale grey, and his eyes a dull orange. He had no hair atop his head, though a thick black beard was present on his chin. He wore a black set of clothing over his torso and a red one over his limbs. His legs were incredibly long, having two knees each, and were clad in steel armor, like his arms. On his feet, he wore a pair of metal sandals, small spikes on the bottom. A large silver helmet was at his left side. It had two thin slits for the eyes that were angled in a menacing way, and the portion that would cover one’s mouth was carved into a cruel and mad smile. To his right was another being. It was very skinny, almost insect-like in appearance. It wore black clothing, though it was armored in a translucent orange substance that looked to be glass from a distance. It had two wings that were similar to a housefly’s and a set of pincers around its head, a mechanical implant rather than a natural appendage. The stranger sat up wearily at spat away from Harjotu. Its face was as hideous as could be, scratched and scarred with unfamiliar markings burned into its features. Its eyes were crystalline, seeming like orange gems rather than the traditional orbs a normal being would have. “I know you,” it said in a nasal voice. Hearing this being’s voice confirmed Harjotu’s theory that this one was a male; no female was as ugly as this insect-looking freak. “You were a general, right? In the army?” “I don’t know,” Harjotu muttered. “I don’t know a lot of things, like where I am... and who in the world you are.” “Taçedre, they called me. Yeah, I remember you. You were the one they said could stretch your body around others until they talked. You were pretty powerful for a Tsiac.” “I don’t remember any of that.” “Hit your head pretty hard upon impact, eh? I woke up when I was falling. I tried to slow down, but all I managed to do was save myself from getting a concussion or something.” “Where were we falling from?” Harjotu asked. He could not say that he particularly liked this Taçedre, but it seemed that he knew a lot more about what had happened in the past than Harjotu did. Taçedre looked up in the night sky and squinted. He turned his head about until his eyes locked on a small pale red object off in the far distance among the thousands of stars. “There,” he said at last. “At least, I think that’s where we were. Even if not, Benevus is the only place we could’ve come from.” “Benevus?” “Your memory really is shot. You lived there. I lived there. I think... I think we’re on the main world.” “What are you talking about?” “Well, Benevus is just a moon. It has to orbit something. I think we’re on the actual planet. What’d our leader call it...? Murtua, something like that...” ______________________________________________________________ The leader of the two Tsiac was named Åzuzal. He was a towering giant of twelve feet, his structure composed of nothing but white-hot flame. A suit of gunmetal grey heat resistant armor gave the figure a definite shape, and provided protection from the one thing he dreaded – water. If he were to encounter enough of it, his existence could very well be extinguished. His head was adorned with a giant helmet, one that granted him the capability of instilling lethargy and tire into those who opposed him. For a “Fire Lord,” he remained surprisingly calm in this situation. Two of his best warriors had just been thrown onto a new world, and he knew the culprit, perhaps a little too well. However, as Åzuzal was the one to volunteer Harjotu and Taçedre for this little test, perhaps his temper did not to be sparked. He glanced over to his company, his former enemy Xakan. Both had gone through memory relapses, though fate evidently wished for them to remember their purpose. They had united their powers and conquered the satellite of Benevus in a matter of weeks. While Åzuzal had his Tsiac and Xakan his Makuta and Yzaates, the two’s forces ended up proving utterly useless, as the titans were perfectly able to act as a two-man army. “Has there been any word from our brother on Murtua,” Xakan asked at last, “or is it possible that he, too, has suffered a similar setback?” “Anything is possible,” Åzuzal replied impatiently. “I have never heard anything of Murtua being conquered, however. I would think your little meteor shower would have given him the opportunity to finish his task.” “There was interference. The shower was redirected to an empty desert instead of the cities it was meant to strike.” “What could have the power to accomplish that?” “An old enemy,” Xakan spat. “Although, we have made enough of them that I am unsure who it was.” “Your teleportation abilities seem... adequate for the two of us to storm through Murtua and give our brother the aid he so desperately seems to need.” “Yes, but are we in any hurry? The universe will be here in an hour, in a day, or in a year. I say we watch how your warriors fare against those of Murtua. Perhaps Deccius’ creations are made of sterner stuff than Yzaa’s throwaway ideas.” The Fire Lord shrugged. He usually was hasty and did not care to waste time on some little game of Xakan’s. Strangely, he too found himself in no true rush. “I suppose,” he stated hesitantly. “They have two days for their little recon. Once time has expired, we go.” “What of Benevus?” Åzuzal looked back, recalling all that had transpired on this satellite. He had gained the loyalty of the Tsiac race by claiming to be their chieftain and led them to countless victories in his own effort to conquer the moon. He had made an enemy of Xakan, though had his memories restored and the two proceeded to take over everything. He no longer held any emotional attachment to Benevus or to the Tsiac. All he had done was in the name of his duty, and now his part of this great plan had been played out. He knew that once the two rulers were gone, the civilization would plunge into chaos as the Makuta, Yzaates, and Toa scrambled to become the new leadership. It would have been tragic that all his work as a “Tsiac” were to go to waste simply because Benevus was no longer a threat, if not for the fact that he no longer cared. In a voice like thunder, he spoke three simple words: “Let it burn.” Category:Blog posts